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Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

(A Prayer of Intercession--Brief Joy)

Upwards Into The Swirling Sea Of White.

Tuesday afternoon in the jewelry box

What If



Make (of) Me A Snow Angel

the slave is freed

So You Do (May 10, 2010 written for June 1987)

If This Is Any Art For Which You Care

All Beings Considered

A Little Bit of Harlem in Your Life

Max on the max

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

A Man Called Tsuris

For The Loss Of A Ghost Like You

Love A Cat

Fragile Shell Of Morning

I Long For Stars

I Feel Fine(r)

The Crow Is A Songbird

Sometimes Love Comes With Electricity

And With Words I Let Them Go

When He Returns From The Road

Flashes, Glimpses, Moments, Time

the brand of disappointment

Boy Restored

Please Don't Bring Me Flowers

No Woman's Friend

Ramada

Sometimes I Hear Him

the life and times of Medusa

why not ask the cat?

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Oh woe the womb


(a sleeping prayer)

I wear a tear around my neck
and it is for my Brother
the first son born
but the least favored by his Mother

the womb is a curious thing
it brings forth life
but sometimes the womb doesn't know
it brings forth strife

my Brother sleeps in a truck
a truck that's not His own
He wears His pain as if it were His crown
it has grown into Him as He has grown

oh the womb is a curious thing
if brings forth life
but sometimes the forgetting womb doesn't know
it brings forth strife

my Brother has been struck
numerous blows upon His head
and bad chance and ill luck
have wed themselves unto His stead

oh the womb is a curious thing
if it brings forth life
why is it the precocious womb doesn't know
sometimes it brings forth strife

my Brother cannot conceive of how
He has succumbed to His unkind fate
least beloved of His Mother
not comprehending of why His current state

oh the womb is a fortuitous thing
when it brings forth screaming life
when an unwilling woman, an unhappy Mother
secretively disdains the new small life

my Brother seems flattened and crushed
somehow beyond the willing hands of hope
I've entrusted him to the Creator
perhaps the Big Sky of Love will help Him cope

oh woe the womb, a most fundant being
the omniscient Inventoress of life
when the womb isn't filled with a growing love
a Mother's bitterness transforms the unborn son.

_________________________
this poem came to me to me
in the darkness of my sleep and sorrows

legal copyright for this work/poem by this author/writer
for this site title: Melissa A Howells/Meloo
straight from her Tilt-a-World

November 14, 2016  6:34 am official time and date stamp
written directly to the page

Father wrote a note to the Son, thank you for giving Daddy
just what he wanted...Mother labored for yet again too long--
within another 50 plus hours the son was born--
marked with forceps and crow-dark haired, not red flaxen
as her first daughter. yet both children were of
the same face and temperament...serious ones.





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